During the years of the peace (1801–1804), French influence upon the
Continent kept marching on. Napoleon’s diplomacy was as effective as
his cannon. Holland became a subject state, with a new constitution
dictated by France, and a governing council which took guidance from
France (1801).
Lombardy dropped its title of the Cisalpine, and became the Italian
republic, with Napoleon for President. French troops entered
Switzerland, put down civil strife, and the country for ten years
enjoyed peace and prosperity under a constitution given it by Napoleon,
he being virtually its ruler under the name of Mediator of the Helvetic
League.
In Germany, a general shaking up and breaking up of political fossils
and governmental dry bones occurred. The territory ceded to France by
the treaty of Lunéville needed to be reorganized. The German princes,
who were dispossessed, required compensation. Prussia had to be paid
for her neutrality. Austria wished to recoup her losses. How was it
possible for diplomacy to satisfy at the same time France, which had
fought and won; Austria which had fought and lost; and Prussia, which
had not fought at all?
Napoleon was ready with his answer. Let the strong help themselves to
the territories of the weak. At Rastadt, Napoleon had remarked to
Marten, “Does not public law nowadays consist simply in the right of
the stronger?” Evidently it did, as it does yet, and ever has done.
Upon this theory the German complication was worked out. There were
fifty so-called Free Cities which, being weak and in debt, might be
forcibly absorbed. There were a number of ecclesiastical princes,
ruling wretchedly over wide and rich domains, whose tempting wealth
might be confiscated. There were hundreds of knights of the German
Empire, decayed relics of mediævalism, each holding as private property
a snug territory, whose people the knight taxed, judged, and outraged
at his own good pleasure. The Congress of Rastadt had been laboring
upon this German problem at the time Austria murdered the French envoys
(1798). The task was now resumed (1801) nominally by the Congress at
Ratisbon, but really by French diplomats in Paris. Talleyrand, as
Minister of Foreign Affairs, had a magnificent opportunity to feather
his nest with bribes, and he made the most of it. German diplomatists
posted to Paris, paid court to the corrupt minister, laughed at all
his good sayings, fondled his poodle, petted his supposed bastard, and
lavished their gold upon him to win his influence.
When the process of reorganization was completed, Germany had been
revolutionized. Most of the Free Cities were no longer free, but were
incorporated with the territory of the government in which they were
located. The ecclesiastical princes were reduced to the condition
of salaried priests, their domains confiscated to the governments.
Bavaria, Baden, Würtemberg, were given large increase of territory;
Prussia was not left unrewarded; France got all she was entitled to;
and Austria, the defeated nation, lost almost nothing. The happy
combination of France, Prussia, Austria, and Russia, to settle their
differences at the expense of the Free Cities and the Princes of the
German Catholic Church, had been blessed with brilliant success.
Following the redistribution of German lands came changes yet more
vital. The wretched little feudal sovereignties disappeared. The
imperial knights lost their out-of-date principalities. The leaven of
the French Revolution penetrated far beyond the Rhine. Offices ceased
to be bought, sold, and inherited. Regular systems of taxation, police,
and legal procedure came into use. The trades and professions were
thrown open to all: caste was breached, the peasant freed from some of
his heaviest burdens. Education, in some parts of Germany, was taken
out of the hands of the Church, and the clergy made amenable to the law.
In this manner Napoleon had, unconsciously perhaps, laid the foundation
for the union of the German peoples into one great empire, by the
suppression of so many of those small, jealous, and hide-bound
principalities which had divided the land, and which nothing but
overwhelming pressure from without could have reformed.
Thus, while still wearing the modest title of First Consul, the ruler
of France had grown to proportions which were imperial. To the French,
he was the necessary man without whom they might relapse into chaotic
conditions. The wondrous structure he had reared seemed to rest upon
his strength alone. His life was the sole guarantee of law and order.
Should assassins strike him down, what would be the situation in
France? To avoid such a danger, and to deprive royalist fanatics of
such a temptation, would it not be better to make Napoleon monarch,
and to settle the succession? In that event his death would not bring
about endless confusion and violent convulsions. Reasoning of this kind
seems to have moved the Senate to propose that the First Consul accept
a new title, and on May 18, 1804, he proclaimed himself Emperor of the
French.
Partly by the force of circumstances, partly by sincere conviction,
partly by the exertion of Napoleon’s wonderful gift for the management
of men, France had been so well prepared for this change in her form
of government that she indorsed it by a practically unanimous vote.
Only such stalwart exponents of a principle as Carnot and Lafayette
protested.
With the Empire came all things imperial: a change of constitution;
a creation of high dignitaries; the ennobling of the Bonaparte
family, Lucien excepted; the creation of marshals in the army; the
establishment of court forms and etiquette in the palace.
Gorgeous and imposing were the ceremonies which ushered in the New
Order. Paris, France, Europe, were dazzled by the lavish expenditures,
the magnificent parade, with which the Consul became Emperor. He spared
no expense, no pains, no personal discomfort, to make the pageant a
success. Historians have sneered at the rehearsals by means of which he
prepared each actor in the coronation for his part; but the ridicule
would seem to be misplaced. His example has set the fashion; and not
only are private marriages rehearsed in our day, but royal funerals and
royal coronations perfect their functions by the same prudent process.
That nothing might be wanting to the solemnity and impressiveness of
the occasion, Napoleon insisted that the Pope should come from Rome
to Paris and officiate. So recent and so immense had been Napoleon’s
services to the Church that the Pontiff could not refuse, more
especially as he had other favors to ask.
Brilliant as a dream was the coronation in the great cathedral of Notre
Dame. Paris never witnessed a civic and military display more splendid.
The Church, the State, princes foreign and native, grandees old and
new, blazed forth in the utmost that wealth and pride and vanity could
display. In a coach heavy with gold Napoleon and Josephine rode, amid
soldiers, to the church where the Pope had long awaited their coming;
and when the great Corsican had been conducted through the proper
forms, had prayed, had sworn, had been oiled and blessed, he proudly
took the crown out of the Pope’s hands, crowned himself, and then
crowned the kneeling Josephine (December, 1804). His mother was not
there, she was in Rome with the revolted Lucien; but when the artist
David painted the picture of the coronation, Napoleon, with his never
failing eye for effect, had Madame Letitia put in. Just as he wished
for his mother on this the great day of his life, he did not forget his
father.
“Joseph, what would father have said!”
One who had lifted himself from a cottage to the White House in these
United States drew all hearts to himself when, after having taken the
oath of office, he turned to his old mother and kissed her. Not far
distant from the same creditable feeling was Napoleon’s regret for his
father.
Mother Letitia could not be persuaded to leave Rome and the insurgent
Lucien; but the old nurse journeyed from Corsica to see her nursling
crowned. Napoleon hugged and kissed the old woman, lavished every
attention upon her, and kept her in Paris a couple of months. When she
returned to Ajaccio, she was laden with gifts.
Nor could Brienne be overlooked in these sunny days of triumph and
of happiness. The Emperor must return to the school grounds of his
boyhood, view the old familiar scenes, talk of old times with such
former acquaintances as might still be there. Behold him, then, soon
after his coronation, arriving at the château of Brienne, at six in
the evening, where Madame de Brienne and Madame Loménie await him at
the foot of the steps. He spends the night at the château, whose kind
mistress had so often made him welcome in the forlorn days of his
youth. He walks about the place, pointing out every spot familiar to
him when at school. He visits the field of La Rothière, a favorite
strolling place of his youth. He is so affable, so animated, so
interested, that his movements seem to say, See where I started from,
and where I have arrived. “And what has become of Mother Marguerite,
the peasant woman who used to sell milk, eggs, and bread to the boys?”
Mother Marguerite is still living, still to be found at the thatched
cottage in the woods. By all means, the Emperor must quit the fine
circle at the château and visit the old peasant in the hut. A man so
gifted with eye to effect could never miss a point like that. So the
horse is saddled and brought; the Emperor mounts and rides; and at the
cottage in the wood his Majesty alights and enters.
“Good day, Mother Marguerite!” The aged eyes are dim, and they
gleam with no recognition. She knows that the Emperor is in the
neighborhood; she expects to go to the château to see him; she will
carry him a basket of eggs to remind him of old times. Suddenly his
Majesty puts himself where the dim eyes can see him better, draws
nearer to her, and mimicking in voice and manner his schoolboy tone,
and rubbing his hands as he had used to do: “Come, Mother Marguerite!
Some milk and fresh eggs; we are dying of hunger.”
A little more jogging of the memory, and the ancient dame, knowing now
who it is, falls at the Emperor’s feet. He lifts her, and still insists
on the eggs and milk. She serves, he eats, both of them happy, and both
of them full of reminiscences of the years long ago. Though he left her
a purse of gold, Mother Marguerite probably was prouder of the fact
that he came to her house and ate.
One more visit the great Emperor will pay Brienne, the year of the last
visit being 1814. Foreign invaders will be encamped all round about the
playgrounds of his boyhood. Prussian Blücher will be taking his ease
and his dinner in the château. Prussian Blücher will give him battle
at Brienne, and will rout him at La Rothière. And to his companions,
the falling Emperor will again point out places of interest in the old
school-ground, but not in the happy vein of 1804.
* * * * *
What should be done with Italy? French arms had wrested her from
Austria and defended her from Russia. She was too weak to stand alone.
Take away the support of France, and she would again be cut up and
devoured by the stronger powers. On all sides she was threatened. The
English were at Malta, the Russians at Corfu, the Austrians in Venice,
while in Naples and Rome were apparent allies, but actual foes. Reasons
of state made it imperative that Napoleon’s imperial system should
embrace Italy, and the Italians themselves favored the change.
Napoleon tendered the crown to his brother Joseph. To the amazement of
the world that preposterous egotist refused upon two grounds: first,
Italy was too near to France for its king to enjoy that complete
independence which Joseph felt necessary to his self-respect; second,
the crown of France belonged to him, in prospect, as heir of the
childless Napoleon; and Joseph would not exchange this selfish, shadowy
claim for the certainty offered him by his too partial brother! Surely
there never lived a man more be-cursed with ingrates of his own blood
than Napoleon!
“I am sometimes tempted to believe,” said he, “that Joseph thinks I
have robbed my elder brother of his share of the inheritance of the
late king, our father!”
It was only after Joseph had resisted all persuasions that Napoleon
decided to make himself king of Italy “until the peace.”
In April, 1805, taking Josephine with him, he crossed the Alps.
Everywhere he was greeted with enthusiasm. On the field of Marengo he
and Josephine sat upon a throne and viewed the splendid rehearsal of
the battle in which the young hero had crushed Austria and rescued
Italy at a blow.
In May, 1805, he placed upon his head, amid pomps and ceremonies in the
cathedral of Milan, the iron crown of the Lombards. Josephine looked
on from the gallery; she was not crowned queen of Italy; but her son,
the loyal and gallant Eugène Beauharnais, was made Viceroy of the new
kingdom. His Holiness, the Pope, was not present at the ceremony; his
Holiness was chagrined and unfriendly; he had left Paris a disappointed
man; he had asked many favors of Napoleon, “my son in Christ Jesus,”
which had been denied, and already was to be seen the slender line of
the rift between Napoleon and the Papacy which was to grow and grow,
widening year by year, until the yawning chasm was to ingulf much of
the strength of the Empire.
But, for the time being, the Pope went his way almost unnoticed, meekly
implacable, humbly vindictive, waiting his chance to strike the ruler
he had so recently oiled and blessed, while the vaulting Corsican,
using an archbishop to manipulate the clerical machinery instead of a
pope, inflated himself with pride as he felt upon his head the crown of
Charlemagne.
And had he no cause to be proud? Did the history of the world disclose
a more dazzling record than his? Not born to the throne, a stranger to
the purple and the gold of rank, the greatest Empire of modern times
was his; and, as heir to the Cæsars, he had now caught upon his arms
the grandeur and the glory of old Rome. Emperor of the West!--another
Theodosius, another Charles the Great! And only a few years ago he had
meekly stopped to scrape the mud of the streets off his coarse boots to
avoid offence to the nose of Madame Permon: had pawned his watch for
food; had moodily thought of drowning himself in the Seine because his
mother had pleaded for help which he was too poor to give!
If ever mortal was justly proud, it was he,--Napoleon, the penniless
son of the lawyer; Napoleon, tireless student, unwearied worker,
unconquerable adventurer, resistless soldier of Fortune,--Napoleon,
Emperor of France and King of Italy, whose crowns had come to him
unstained of blood! He was the strongest, the wisest, the best in
fight, in work, in council; and they had raised him aloft on their
bucklers as the strongest had been lifted in the valiant days of old.
Nothing in Napoleon’s career was more brilliant than his triumphal
progress through the Italian cities. Everything which a passionate,
imaginative people could do to testify their admiration and affection,
they did; and during these brief, sunny weeks when he moved amid
ovations and splendors, amid rejoicings and blessings, amid music
and flowers, with Josephine by his side, he probably came as near to
happiness as his restless, craving nature could come. Everywhere he
left indelible footprints,--roads, canals, public buildings of all
sorts, mighty and useful works which made his tour memorable for all
time.
Genoa, following the lead of Italy, and friendly suggestions from
France, voted to unite her fortunes with those of the new Empire. The
Doge and the Senate went in state to Milan, were received by Napoleon
on his throne, and prayed that he would accept the ancient republic
as a part of France. Graciously the modern Cæsar consented; the Doge
became a French senator, and out of the territories of the republic
were carved three French departments.
The little republic of Lucca caught the general infection, sent a
deputation to Milan, begged at Napoleon’s hands a government and a
constitution, was warmly welcomed by the Emperor, and was bestowed as
an imperial fief upon his sister Elisa, wife of a Corsican fiddler
named Bacciochi.
[Illustration: JOSEPHINE IN 1809
From a water-color by Isabey]
The horror and indignation with which European kings and cabinets
looked upon these encroachments can easily be imagined. With one accord
they began to cry out against Napoleon’s “insatiable ambition.” England
did not consider how she had despoiled France in Canada, on the Ohio,
in Hindustan. Russia and Austria made no account of provinces taken
from Poland or Turkey. All the great nations were growing greater; the
general balance of power had been disturbed: was France alone to be
denied the right to extend her system over states which asked for it,
and which were dependent upon her for protection?
In January, 1805, Napoleon had written directly to the King of England,
as he had done once before, asking for peace. As before, his advances
had been repelled. Great Britain had already begun to knit together the
threads of another coalition. An understanding existed between England,
Russia, Austria, and Sweden. Naples, through her Bourbon rulers, was
fawning at Napoleon’s feet, flattering and servile, while secretly she
was plotting his downfall. Well aware of the storm which was gathering
on the Continent, Napoleon prepared for it, but did not for an instant
relax his efforts at Boulogne.
His plan was to send his fleet to sea, decoy Nelson into pursuit,
and then, while his own ships doubled and came back to the Channel,
to cross his army over to England, under its protection, in his
flat-bottomed boats. “Masters of the Channel for six hours, we are
masters of the world.”
It was not to be. Wind and waves fought against him. The incapacity
of his navy fought against him. Into soldiers on land he could infuse
courage, confidence, sympathetic coöperation. But the navy baffled
him: all his efforts were vain. His admirals could not, or would
not, have faith; could not, or would not, obey orders; could not, or
would not, coöperate. Utterly wasted were all his labors, all his
expenditures. Austrian armies were marching against Bavaria, Napoleon’s
ally; Russian hordes were moving down from the north; Prussia’s
magnificent army of fifty thousand men was in the balance, wavering
ominously, and threatening to unite with the coalition.
Such was the situation on the Continent when the despatches reached
Napoleon that all his great plans for the invasion of England had gone
to wreck and ruin; that his admiral had misconceived or had disobeyed
positive orders; that the French fleet would not only be unable to give
him aid, but was so scattered and so placed that it must inevitably
fall a prey to the English.
“It was about four o’clock in the morning of August 13, that the news
was brought to the Emperor,” says Ségur. “Daru was summoned, and
on entering gazed on his chief in utter astonishment.” The Emperor
“looked perfectly wild”; his hat jammed down over his eyes, “his whole
aspect terrible.” As soon as he saw Daru, he rushed up, and poured out
a torrent of pent-up wrath. He railed at his admiral, his imbecile
admiral, “that damned fool of a Villeneuve!” He paced “up and down the
room, with great strides for about an hour,” venting his rage, his
disappointment, his reproaches. Then stopping suddenly and pointing
to a desk, he exclaimed: “Sit down there, Daru, and write!” And with
marvellous self-control, wresting his thoughts away from Villeneuve,
the fleet, the blasted plans of invasion, he dictated to the secretary,
hour after hour, as fast as pen could catch the rushing words, the
whole campaign of Ulm in its largest outline, in its smallest detail,
embracing, as it did, the movement of his own vast legions lying
along the coast for two hundred leagues, the movement of Masséna
from Italy, of Marmont from Holland, and of Bernadotte from Hanover.
Four hundred thousand soldiers were moving against the French; less
than half that number of French rushed to repel the attack. The vast
camps on the Boulogne coast vanished, the eagles set Rhineward, other
legions marched as they had never marched before--thousands speeding
along the roads in coaches. The Austrians had not waited for the
Russians; Bavaria had been overrun; and Mack, the Austrian general,
was now dawdling about Ulm. Before he suspected what was happening,
Napoleon’s combination had been made, a circle of steel drawn about
his adversary; and the French armies, closing in upon front, rear, and
flanks, held the Austrians as in a mighty trap. With the exception of
a few squadrons which broke through the gaps in the French lines as
they advanced, the whole Austrian army laid down its arms (October 20,
1805). In the _Memoirs_ of de Ségur we are given a personal glimpse of
the Emperor which is perhaps more interesting to the average reader
than the dreary narrative of march, counter-march, manœuvre, and battle.
During the combats around Elchingen, Napoleon, soaked with rain, went
to a farmhouse at Hasslach to wait for Lannes and the Guard to come up.
There was a stove which threw out its comfortable heat, and before it
sat a drummer boy, wet, cold, and wounded. Napoleon’s staff officers
told the boy to get out, and go somewhere else. The drummer would not
hear of it. The room was big enough for both the Emperor and himself,
he said, and he meant to stay. Napoleon laughed, and told them to let
the boy alone, “since he made such a point of it.” In a few moments
the Emperor was dozing on one side of the stove and the drummer lad on
the other. Around the two sleepers were grouped the staff officers,
standing, and awaiting orders.
Louder roared the cannon, and every few minutes Napoleon would rouse
himself and send off messengers to hasten Lannes. While the Emperor was
thus napping, Lannes came up, entered the room abruptly, and exclaimed:
“Sire! What are you thinking about? You are sleeping while Ney,
single-handed, is fighting against the whole Austrian army!”--“That’s
just like Ney, I told him to wait,” said Napoleon, and springing on his
horse, he galloped off so fast that Lannes, afraid now that the Emperor
would rush into danger, roughly seized the bridle rein and forced
him back in a less dangerous position. Ney was reënforced, and the
Austrians routed.
* * * * *
In the midst of his own successes, Napoleon received the tidings from
Trafalgar. Nelson had fought the combined fleets of France and Spain,
had lost his own life, but had won so complete a triumph that England’s
supremacy at sea was not disputed again throughout the Napoleonic wars.
The shock to Napoleon must have been stunning, but he only said, “I
cannot be everywhere.”
Continuing his advance, he entered Vienna, November 13, 1805, and lost
no time in throwing his army across the Danube, in hot pursuit of the
retreating enemy.
By a trick and a falsehood, Murat and Lannes secured the great bridge,
and much precious time was saved. By a similar trick, the Russians
deceived Murat a few days later, and escaped the net Napoleon had
thrown around them, and thus “the fruits of a campaign were lost.”
Murat gained the bridge by pretending that an armistice had been agreed
on; the Russians made good their escape by duping Murat with the same
falsehood. Napoleon’s anger was extreme, the more so as a blunder of
Murat’s had come within a hair’s-breadth of spoiling the campaign of
Ulm.
Failing to trap the Russians as he had trapped the Austrians, there
was nothing for Napoleon to do but to press the pursuit. League after
league the French penetrated a hostile country, new armies mustering
on all sides to rush in upon them, until they were in the heart of
Moravia. The Emperor Francis of Austria had joined the Czar Alexander,
and the combined Russo-Austrian forces, outnumbering the French,
confronted Napoleon at Austerlitz. The position of the French, far
from home and surrounded by populations rushing to arms, was critical.
Napoleon realized it, and so did his foe. There is no doubt that he
would have welcomed an honorable peace, but the terms offered by the
Czar were so insulting that he indignantly rejected them. Hastily
concentrating his army, he made ready to fight. He artfully cultivated
the self-confidence of the enemy, and put them under the impression
that he was trying to escape. They had the hardihood to believe that
they could turn his position, cut him off from his line of retreat, and
do to him at Austerlitz as he had done to Mack at Ulm.
Indeed, the position of the French army demanded all of Napoleon’s
firmness, all of his genius. He had about eighty thousand men; the
Emperors in his front had ninety thousand. His right was threatened
by the Archduke Charles with an army of forty thousand; his rear by
the Archduke Ferdinand with twenty thousand; on his left flank was
unfriendly Prussia with a magnificent force of one hundred and fifty
thousand. The combined armies in his front, taking the offensive,
attacked the French advance guard at Wischau, and routed it. Napoleon
was uneasy. He sent envoys to the Czar and sought a personal interview.
Surrounded by young hotheads, Alexander repulsed the overture, sending
Dolgorouki to meet the Emperor of the French. Full of the idea that the
French were frightened and would pay handsomely for the privilege of
getting back home, young Dolgorouki demanded of Napoleon the surrender
of Italy, Belgium, and the Rhine provinces.
“What more could you ask if you were in France?” exclaimed the
indignant Napoleon. The envoy’s manner was as offensive as his
language, and Napoleon finally ordered him off. Violently irritated,
Napoleon stood talking to Savary for some time, striking the ground
with his riding-whip, as he dwelt upon the insolence of the Russians.
“Please God, in forty-eight hours I will give them a lesson!”
An old grenadier stood near, filling his pipe for a smoke. Napoleon
walked up to him and said, “Those fellows think they are going to
swallow us up.”--“If they try it,” said the veteran, “we’ll stick in
their craws.” Napoleon laughed, and his brow cleared.
Drawing his army back to a still better position, Napoleon studied
the ground thoroughly, reconnoitred diligently, and waited. He soon
guessed the plan of the enemy, to turn his right flank. But to do this
they must expose their own flank to him, and he would strike them as
they marched. So confident was Napoleon that he could destroy his enemy
if the turning movement across his front were attempted, that he lured
them still farther by withdrawing from the high-ground, the Pratzen
plateau--“a grand position,” from which he could easily have inflicted
upon the Russians an ordinary defeat. But an ordinary defeat was not
what he wanted; he manœuvred to lead his foes into a false movement
where they could be annihilated.
On December 1, 1805, about four in the afternoon, Napoleon could see
through his field-glass that the great turning movement of the Russians
had commenced. He clapped his hands and exclaimed, “They are walking
into a trap; before to-morrow night that army will be mine!”
Ordering Murat to make a sham attack and then retire so as to confirm
the enemy in his delusion of a French retreat, Napoleon dictated a
stirring address to his troops, pointing out to them the Russian
mistake and the advantage the French could take of it. Everything done
that could be done, the great captain called his staff about him, and
sat down to dinner in the hut which served him for a bivouac. Seated
around the table on wooden benches were Murat, Caulaincourt, Junot,
Rapp, Ségur, Mouton, Thiard, and others. As serenely as though he were
in Paris, Napoleon led the conversation to literary topics, dramatic
poetry especially, and commented at length on the merits of various
authors and plays. From these subjects he passed on to Egypt, and again
spoke of the wonderful things he would have done had he taken Acre. He
would have gained a battle on the Issus, become Emperor of the East,
and returned to Paris by way of Constantinople. Junot suggested that
they might, even now, be on the road to Constantinople. But Napoleon
said: “No. The French do not love long marches. They love France too
well. The troops would prefer to return home.” Junot questioned this;
but Mouton bluntly declared that the Emperor was right, that the army
was tired out, it had had enough: it would fight, but would do so
because it wished to win a battle which would end the war and allow the
men to return home.
Throwing himself upon some straw in his hut, Napoleon slept till far
into the night. Then he mounted his horse, and once more went the
rounds to see that all was right. He went too near the Russian lines:
roused some Cossacks, and escaped capture by the speed of his horse.
Getting back into his own lines, he was stumbling along on foot in the
darkness when he fell over a log. A grenadier, to light his way, made
a torch of some straw. The blaze showed to other soldiers the Emperor.
Upon a sudden impulse, more torches were made of straw, while the shout
arose, “Live the Emperor!” It was the anniversary of the coronation,
and the troops remembered. The one torch became a score, the score a
hundred, then thousands, until a blaze of light ran along the line for
miles, while the shout of “Live the Emperor!” roused even the Russian
hordes. It was such an ovation as only a Cæsar could inspire. It was
so unstudied, so heartfelt, so martial and dramatic, that Napoleon was
profoundly moved. “It is the grandest evening of my life,” he exclaimed.
At dawn he called his staff to the hut, ate with them standing, and
then, buckling on his sword, said, “Now, gentlemen, let us go and begin
a great day!” A moment later he sat his horse on a hill that overlooked
the field, his staff and his marshals around him. As the sun cleared
itself of the mists, “the sun of Austerlitz,” the final orders were
given, the marshals galloped to their posts, and the famous battle
began. By four o’clock that evening the Russo-Austrian army was a
wreck--outgeneralled, outfought, knocked to pieces. Napoleon had ended
“_this_ war by a clap of thunder.” The Czar fled with the remnant of
his host, escaping capture at the hands of Davoust by the well-worn
falsehood of an armistice. The Emperor Francis came in person to
Napoleon to sue for peace, was kindly received, and was granted terms
far more liberal than he had any right to expect.
On December 27, 1805, the Treaty of Presburg was signed. Austria ceded
Venice, Friuli, Istria, and Dalmatia to Italy; Tyrol to Bavaria, which
Napoleon erected into an independent kingdom; Würtemberg and Baden
received cities and territory as rewards for adherence to France.
Austria sanctioned all of Napoleon’s recent encroachments in Italy, and
agreed to pay an indemnity of $8,000,000.
In the battle of Austerlitz the Allies lost about fifteen thousand men,
killed and wounded, besides twenty thousand prisoners. The French loss
was about twelve thousand.
Marbot relates an incident which illustrates the character of Napoleon.
One of the familiar episodes of the battle of Austerlitz was the
retreat of the Russians over the frozen lakes. Napoleon himself ordered
the cannoneers to cease shooting at the fugitives, and to elevate
their pieces so that the balls would fall upon the ice. The balls fell,
the ice cracked, and some two thousand Russians sank to watery graves.
Next day Napoleon, being near this spot, heard feeble cries for help.
It was a Russian sergeant, wounded, adrift in the lake, supporting
himself on an ice floe. Napoleon’s sympathies were at once aroused,
and he called for volunteers to save the Russian. Many attempts were
made, several Frenchmen came near being drowned, and finally Marbot and
Roumestain stripped, swam to the man, and brought him to the shore.
Napoleon had every attention shown to the poor fellow--the survivor of
the host which sank the day before under his pitiless orders.